This photo really does say it all – chicks pretending it’s actually St. Patrick’s Day, brahs photobombing, my brother, myself, and even my camera itself, unsettled, wobbly, and drunk, for the third annual Grapevine Beertopia, down in South Carolina.
Lots of different brews sampled and enjoyed, and without failed, pretty much everyone got hammered in the process. In other words, it was a lot of fun.
The beginnings and endings of the Fries challenge from hell. It started off well, but went to hell real fast, with the impending doom of the fries constantly awaiting in the wings. By the time I gave up, the hardened, dried cheese resembled the alien symbiote that eventually became Venom and Carnage, instead of gooey cheese on the fries.
Continue reading “Photos: The Fries Challenge From Hell Experience”
It was supposed to be a burger challenge.
your choice of 4 of our 10 burgers, piled high with toppings and served with an enormous pile of cheese fries.
The fact that the word “enormous” was not defined, is the deadliest aspect of this challenge. The fact that the word “enormous” was not defined, is exactly why this thing shouldn’t really even be called a burger challenge.
It should be “Loaded French Fries challenge with a side of Hamburgers“
Needless to say, I failed quite horribly, although not nearly as bad Huzzard did. I consumed roughly three and 3/5 of the four hamburgers, and I didn’t put a noticeable dent in the estimated eight potatoes worth of loaded cheese fries that “were thrown in” to the challenge.
I felt that I was making good time, and if the limits of my body were greater than what I had already exhibited, I know I could have finished it. But the mountain of fries always being in sight proved to be adversity that clouded my mind with doubt and uncertainty, which ultimately led to my inevitable defeat. I’m seriously beginning to wonder if I’ll ever defeat any of the food challenges that I always seem to think I’m capable of toppling when I see them.
I am at my parents’ house right now.
My parents are not home.
They are in Costa Rica.
My parents changed the locks on the house.
I had to go to my aunt in order to get a spare key to get in.
I did not know of any of this until about just before I was about to make my trip up to Virginia. And as funny as all this sounds, it really truly is just coincidence, but it’s a funnier story to explain it as such. Oh, I get along great with my parents, but they changed the locks on their house and went to Costa Rica.
Oh well. At least I’m comfortably in my old bed, in my old, pitch-black closet of a bedroom, even if it’s a completely empty house.
Tomorrow, or rather, well later today, I will embark on a burger challenge that I do not wish to incur failure. Photos will probably end up here soon afterward.
Recently took a road trip up to old C’ville to visit some old friends. Who have kids now. Whose local friends all have kids too. Kids everywhere! Man, I’m feeling old.
Naturally, after weeks of normal, albeit cool weather, it turns to shit literally two hours before I need to hop on a flight back home when I have work waiting for me tomorrow. It’s been two months since I last traveled, which is the same as two years for some, and already I’m sick of flying again. I get it when employees are stressed, overwhelmed and exasperated, but it’s never any excuse to lie and make shit up to someone who is pretty familiar with the whole process. Regardless of their bullshit, I’m through security on my own accord because I’m fucking brilliant. But fuck all this ill timed Mother Nature bullshit.
On Monday last week, I hopped on a plane, and flew across the country to Portland, Oregon. The reasoning was pretty simple – I wanted to see a baseball game. The team was The Portland Beavers, which are a minor league affiliate of the San Diego Padres, and their home park, PGE Park is regarded as one of the nicest parks in the minor league ball circuit.
There isn’t a whole lot of explanation necessary to why I would exert so much effort in flying across the country in order to see a minor league team called “the Beavers.” I am, admittedly, a big kid at heart, and I snicker every time I say, or someone else says “the Portland Beavers.” The 14-year old in me demanded that this trip come to pass, and pass it did. But most importantly was the fact that the 2010 season is the last year for the Beavers, and after it’s over, their park is being converted into a full-time soccer stadium for a fucking Major League Soccer team (The Portland Timbers . . . lame), and the Beavers are more or less being kicked out of town, and leaving the name behind in the process. So it boiled down to a now-or-never scenario, to where if I didn’t make the trip on Monday, there would be no seeing any (baseball) Beavers, ever in my life.
The Beavers more or less gave me a convenient excuse to ever want to go to the state of Oregon, a state that I had never been to, in my entire life, and never really had any reason to until recently. I had a fairly eventful time out in Portland aside from just the baseball game itself, and I’m glad that I made the trip, even if I did get stranded at the airport, and have to shell out the money that I don’t necessarily have to pay for a motel for four hours. I look back at the experience fondly, and feel little regret that a trip with immature motivations, and for a minor league ballpark wound up being the furthest traveled, most expensive, and (planned) shortest baseball road trip I made this season.
